


how to fix your once-dead son's brain with magic, medicine, and other methods

by drakefeathers



Series: how to [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Brain Damage, Catatonic Jason Todd, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Past Character Death, Recovery, Surgery, bruce is a sad sad man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakefeathers/pseuds/drakefeathers
Summary: Bruce needs to be able to fix things.





	how to fix your once-dead son's brain with magic, medicine, and other methods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpecElec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpecElec/gifts).



> a shorter version of this was originally a birthday gift for Spec several years ago <3

Bruce knows that he has underestimated Tim Drake.

This boy managed to figure out Batman and Bruce are one and the same, and had the guts to knock on the manor door and tell Bruce so. He stood his ground and made a passionate argument about how Batman needs a Robin. And now, months since that night when Bruce dismissed him so callously, he has returned. With Jason. 

He’s brought Robin back to Batman.

The boy standing beside Tim looks to be the age Jason should be now—slightly taller, but skinnier than Jason was. He is wearing a hoodie that must belong to Tim, because it’s too short in the arms. His hair is longer and shaggy, hiding some of his face, but there is no mistaking those curls. 

“Jason,” Bruce says quietly, reaching out to tilt his chin upwards, to see his face more clearly. 

There’s something wrong with the boy. He doesn’t speak. His eyes are blank and distant. Barbara warned Bruce about this when she called, and he already has a list of suspicions —clone, android, dark magic—and those just off the top of his head, based on personal experience. As Bruce searches Jason’s eyes, he thinks he sees something. A flicker of recognition. So brief he could have blinked and missed it.

There will be tests, later. DNA analyses and blood samples, scans for energy residues and anomalies. Bruce will painstakingly cross each item off his list of suspicions. But he already knows what the result will be. The part of Bruce that is still Jason’s father knows without doubt that this boy is his son.

Alfred cries when he sees Jason, tears running down his face as he embraces the boy as carefully as he’s made of glass. Dick has tears in his eyes too, when he bursts through the door breathlessly, having jumped in his car immediately after Barbara phoned him and broken every speed limit from New York to Gotham. Even Barbara, who has already been reunited with Jason, cries anew, wiping the tears with her sleeve.

They’ve all lost plenty of loved ones—they’re not used to getting one _back_.

“Enough,” says Bruce, silencing the questions and theories and concerns, the voices growing steadily louder. There are too many people expressing too many conflicting emotions—the large parlour suddenly feels small and stifling. It’s too much at once, for Jason. “Alfred, take Jason to his room. He needs to rest.”

Bruce nods at Tim, who has been standing awkward and silent by the wall, watching the reunion with wide eyes, and gestures at the boy to follow him. Bruce leads him into the study and closes the door firmly behind them.

 

* * *

 

Bruce has heard a short version of the story from Barbara, and filled in several of the blanks on his own, but he sits Tim down in the study and has the boy tell him everything, from the beginning.

Tim is a bright, attentive child, and he eagerly recounts the past few days with an impressive amount of detail. He has even brought evidence with him—a photo he took the night he found Jason. “It’s a bit blurry,” he says apologetically, as he hands it to Bruce. “And the lighting wasn’t great—the alley was dark.”

It’s clear enough. The Jason in the photo looks like a deer in headlights, eyes widened in fear at the flash of the camera. His face is smudged with grime, his clothes woefully dirty from living and sleeping on the streets. It’s hard to look at, but Bruce forces himself to study it carefully.

There’s also a cufflink that Tim places carefully on the desk between them. “I found this, at his grave.” Bruce recognizes it. The set once belonged to his father, then himself, and then… Jason had worn them. For his funeral.

“I know it’s him, Mr Wayne,” Tim says earnestly, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. “It’s actually him. His body came back, but his mind… It’s _there_ , but it’s… trapped. You can help him, though, right?”

Tim looks up at Bruce with tentative hope, and Bruce meets his gaze steadily. “Yes.” He says it without hesitation. Having this new mission feels like solid ground, after so much time spent sinking deeper into despair. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

Everyone else wept when they saw Jason again, alive and standing in front of them. Bruce hasn’t yet. He thinks Jason’s death already wrung him out too thoroughly. 

There is one moment he comes close, when he goes to Jason’s bedroom and finds Alfred dressing the boy in flannel pajamas, guiding his arms through the sleeves. Bruce glimpses Jason’s ribs, the sharpness of his collarbone, before Alfred fastens the buttons with shaking hands.

“I believe he’s thinner now than he was that night when you first brought him home,” Alfred tells him quietly. It’s almost enough to break him. He clenches his jaw tightly, holding back the surge of grief.

He has to clear his throat before he is able to speak, even then his voice is strained. “Leslie will come by tomorrow to check on him.” He sets the medical kit on the desk and opens the lid. “I want to take a blood sample before you put him to bed.”

Alfred sighs and steps out of the way. “Very well, Master Bruce.”

Jason doesn’t fuss at the pain of the needle, sitting still on the bed, but as soon as Bruce lets go of his arm he slumps over and pulls the pillow under his head. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. As though happy to finally be home.

 

* * *

 

Bruce hopes for the best. He has to hope, because this is Jason. That’s Jason lying in that hospital bed, his eyes closed and his head wrapped in bandages from the surgical procedure he hasn’t woken up from yet, and Bruce can’t accept any outcome other than a successful recovery. Even though he knows more about the subject of medicine than Bruce Wayne should—enough to know the answer—he still has to ask, _how long_?

Tommy shakes his head as he jots down notes into Jason’s chart. “I’ve already told you, improvement will be slow. His chances of recovering are good, being young. His brain will build new connections. But it will take months, likely years, of healing and therapy.”

That isn’t what Bruce wants to hear. Jason deserves better than an endless, difficult recovery. Jason deserves better from _him_. He’s Bruce Wayne, and Batman. He has the resources and power. There has to be more he can do.

His Bruce Wayne mask slips in that moment of bitter disappointment, dark emotions showing in full on his face. He smoothes his expression to something milder, less fierce, but it’s too late. Tommy has already seen, and looks at him curiously for a moment.

“I know it’s frustrating,” Tommy says kindly, scribbling the last of his notes and placing the clipboard down. “But I’m afraid there isn’t much more I can do for him, besides writing whatever prescriptions he needs. I’ll be sure to follow up often, however. I’m very invested in this case. His condition is… intriguing, to say the least.” He raises an eyebrow in mild, almost polite, suspicion.

Silent questions hang in the air between them. All the things Tommy must have been wondering during surgery. The fact that Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne’s adopted son, is supposed to be dead. Bruce hasn’t even tried to offer explanations and Tommy hasn’t asked for any. He traveled to Gotham as a favour, and he hasn’t so much as batted an eye at the fake names on the paperwork.

Bruce is lucky to have a world-class brain surgeon he can trust, one he’s known since childhood. Leslie is a brilliant doctor, but this is beyond her. And going to anybody else would risk revealing Batman’s identity to a stranger. He’s lucky to have Tommy.

Just to be certain, he reminds Tommy again to avoid mentioning this to anyone. It’s their secret. He asks it casually, hiding how carefully he’s watching and judging the reply.

“Of course, Bruce. I won’t speak a word of it. What are friends for?”

This time Tommy is the one who lets his mask slip, but the expression that flits like a shadow across his face is missed by Bruce, because at that moment Jason finally opens his eyes. And then Tommy is leaving to catch a flight, promising to return as soon as possible for a follow-up.

Bruce pulls up a chair next to the bed and places his hand on Jason’s arm, just to remind the boy that he’s here. Jason doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are still cloudy and dull from the anaesthetic and other drugs, and it isn’t long before they close again.

 

* * *

 

Bruce pulls strings to get Jason discharged as soon as possible. Possibly too early—the doctors protest, but Bruce has all the necessary medical equipment and machines at the manor, and the longer Jason stays here the more questions will be asked, the greater the chance of their identities being realized. He’s safer at home.

Jason doesn’t like taking the medications. He doesn’t like the tubes in his arms or the bandages on his head or staying in bed all day. He struggles against all of it as much as he can, still weak from surgery, and Alfred and Bruce can’t simply ask him to stop. Jason doesn’t—can’t—listen to them. He doesn’t know what happened to him, he only knows that he’s uncomfortable and hurting.

That changes when Bruce is in the room. Though Jason doesn’t otherwise acknowledge the man’s presence, he always seems calmer when Bruce is in the room. Happier. He stops trying to rip out tubes and wires, stops fumbling at the bandages. He stops trying to get out of bed, and Bruce wonders if the reason Jason tries so hard to leave is to look for him.

As long as Bruce stays near, Jason is content enough to let his guard down—those survival instincts that kept him alive on the streets despite his condition—and just sleep, deeply and without fear.

 

* * *

 

Every available waking hour is devoted to searching for other, better solutions. For a way to fix Jason. Bruce couldn’t save his son the first time, but somehow he’s been given a second chance to help him, and he won’t let Jason down again.

He dabbles in Kryptonian science. He asks J’onn to delve into Jason’s mind. He even consults Zatanna, desperate enough to turn to magic. But there’s no easy way. All the alien information available to him is impossible to decipher at worst and irrelevant at best. It will take years to understand it and longer to be able to apply it. J’onn uses telepathy to explore Jason’s fragmented mind, spending hours trying to put a few pieces together, trying to help the boy’s thoughts and memories connect as they should, but afterwards he’s always frowning and Jason is the same as before. Zatanna tells him in no uncertain terms that magic is too risky, the results won’t be what he’s looking for.

Bruce hasn’t even figured out how Jason was resurrected. He managed to follow Jason’s trail, from him digging himself out of his grave, to his visit at a nearby ER, to the convalescent home where he spent the next several weeks—and it’s enough to make Bruce shake in rage and disappointment in himself when he realizes how close he was to Jason, how many times he patrolled in that area, past the very street where Jason was lying comatose in a hospital room, and never knew—but none of that explains what caused Jason to wake up in his coffin, alive.

It is probably for the best that he doesn’t know how to contact Talia anymore. The urge to ask for a favour he’s certain to regret later is too great to ignore.

 

* * *

 

Bruce keeps his distance from magic, as a rule. He is wary of the mystical forces that resist understanding, of their arbitrary rules and unpredictable outcomes. But he has to admit what happened to Jason seems impossible, from a scientific view. It must be supernatural, which means this mystery is beyond his type of detective work.

For Jason, he’s willing to try anything. And Zatanna is a trusted friend. If anyone can figure it out, it’s her.

Bruce wants it to work. He truly does. So he reins in his skepticism tightly as Zatanna lights candles around Jason’s bedroom. He doesn’t say a word when she holds up various crystals and peers at Jason through them. He watches patiently while she sits cross-legged on the floor across from Jason and recites spells of truth and revelation, her eyes glowing white.

When she stands, snapping her fingers to extinguish all the candles at once, she is frowning. Much like J’onn was.

“Well?” asks Bruce, trying very hard to not sound demanding. She takes her time answering, her brow furrowed in thought.

“I wouldn’t say magic is the culprit,” she says eventually. She crosses her arms uneasily. “It’s a different kind of force. Something incredibly powerful, but he was only caught in the outer ripples of it. He definitely _was_  dead, though. He passed to the other side of the veil. I can feel its aura on him.”

“I didn’t bury him alive.” Bruce lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. It should be irrelevant. It doesn’t change the fact that Jason woke up in his coffin, trapped and alone.

There’s no way Bruce could have made that mistake—Jason was dead. But, if he _did_ —

Zatanna gently takes his hand in her own. “No,” she says reassuringly. “You didn’t.”

“Zee,” Bruce says, looking at her with desperate, exhausted eyes. It’s all he needs to say. 

She frowns and drops his hand as she takes a step back, away from him. “No, Bruce,” she replies firmly, shoving her magical tools back into her bag. “I already told you. I’m here to help you figure out how he came back to life, that’s all. I’m not a doctor.”

“You’ve healed me on missions before.”

“This isn’t a cut or a broken bone. This is his mind.”

“Please, Zatanna,” he implores. She blinks, startled. Not used to hearing that word from him. He is willing to get on his knees and beg if that’s what it takes to convince her. “Please,” he says again. “Try.”

Zatanna sighs and kneels in front of Jason, still sitting on the floor where she left him. She gently cups her hands around the sides of his head and murmurs a spell. Her hands glow for a moment, then fade. There is no visible effect. Jason’s face is just as blank as she smoothes his hair back down and stands to face Bruce.

“Did you—“ Bruce starts, but Zatanna stops him there.

“There’s nothing I can do. The brain reacts poorly to magical healing at the best of times. It’s too complex, tied directly into one’s self. What he’s been through… the wounds run deep into his spirit.” She shakes her head, and throws Bruce a bitter look. “I knew you would push this, so I spoke to J’onn. He said Jason’s mind is like a puzzle with millions of scattered pieces, and he’s exactly right. Jason is the only one who has a hope of putting them back together properly.” Then she says what Bruce was hoping not to hear again: “He just needs more time, Bruce.”

She says more, about going to investigate the gravesite and looking into any recent spikes of energy. Bruce nods and barely hears it. His thoughts are down in the cave, with his notes and his shrinking list of ideas.

“Bye, Jason,” Zatanna says before she leaves, smiling at him. He gazes right through her. She pauses by Bruce on her way to the door, and tells him quietly, “I wish I could help. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bruce replies. He tries to be reassuring, but his voice comes out flat. “It’s not your fault.”

 

* * *

 

When Jason is strong enough, Bruce takes him down to the cave. 

Everything is still exactly as Jason should remember it, with two exceptions. The giant Joker card is missing from its display—Bruce removed it at Alfred’s suggestion, both concerned that it could frighten Jason and stir up painful memories of his ordeal. Bruce is hoping to stir up different memories. He leads Jason to the glass case placed prominently in the cave, the one that has held Jason’s uniform since his death. A memorial. A reminder.

When Jason stands in front of the glass just so, his reflection aligns with the uniform inside like— like he’s wearing it again. Bruce stands behind him, his hands resting on the boy’s shoulders.

“Your name is Jason,” Bruce tells him. “You love cars and getting into fights, neapolitan ice cream and the colour green. But, most of all, you love being Robin.”

Jason doesn’t reply. His face reflected in the glass is thin and weary, different from the round-cheeked boy he used to be.

Bruce squeezes his shoulders reassuringly. “I know you’re still in there, Jay.”

Footfalls echo from the passageway to the house above. Bruce expects Alfred, at first, but the pace and pattern is wrong. Which only leaves one other likely person.

“Bruce. We need to talk.” Dick pauses at the bottom of the stairs. He frowns at the sight of them standing in front of the Robin uniform. “What are you doing?”

Bruce lets go of Jason and turns to face his previous partner. “Jason spent a lot of time here in the cave, before. I thought it could jog his memory.”

“He’s still recovering. Aren’t you worried you’re pushing him too far, too fast?”

“I trained Jason. I know his limits.”

“Fine,” Dick relents, with a frustrated sweep of his hand. “I didn’t come here to argue about this.”

“But you did come here to argue about something.” It’s not hard to guess. Dick is still as transparent with his irritation as ever. The dramatic gesticulations are a dead giveaway.

“Yes. Raven told me you contacted her—“

“To explore using her healing powers to help Jason,” Bruce finishes for him. 

“Then why didn’t you talk to _me_?” Dick demands to know, hand pressed to his chest. “She’s _my_  friend. I could have asked her about it.”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t agree with me. You think it’s a bad idea.”

“I do think it’s a bad idea. So would you, if you were thinking rationally right now,” Dick remarks bitterly, and Bruce has to bite back an angry retort. Dick knows him too well, knows exactly how to get under his skin. “Besides, I know you only want Raven’s help because Zatanna decided it was too risky and turned you down. I won’t let you drag Raven here just to blame her when there’s nothing she can do.”

“Even if that’s the case, we have to try,” Bruce insists. “I won’t rest until I’ve considered every option.”

“Next you’re going to tell me you’re thinking of tossing him in a Lazarus pit.” The cave is silent for a moment. Dick scowls darkly. “ _Bruce_.”

“I’ve already ruled it out. It’s just as likely to kill him again as restore his mind.”

“You’re unbelievable! You know that, Bruce?” Dick is yelling now. He jabs a finger at Bruce accusingly. “The fact that you would even consider—!“

Bruce hears his own voice start thundering despite himself. “I already told you, I’m considering _everything_!”

They keep fighting, shouting, like they aways do when they see each other these days. Usually it ends with Bruce refusing to argue any longer and turning away, and then Dick storming out of the house and back to his own city. This time they don’t get that far. 

Jason lets out a whimpered gasp, crouching down with his arms wrapped around his head as though pained by their raised voices. Dick and Bruce fall silent, looking from Jason to each other in mutual shame. Kneeling beside Jason, Bruce places a hand on his back comfortingly until the boy calms down and lets himself be guided upright again.

“I’ll talk to Raven,” Dick says quietly, like he’s compensating for his earlier volume. “If she agrees to come see Jason, you won’t be there. We’re not pressuring her into doing anything she’s not comfortable with.”

“Fine,” Bruce agrees distractedly. He’s focused on Jason. The reaction seemed to just be a physical one, to the loud noises and the presence of pain, but it will be worth noting down, just in case.

Bruce thinks that’s the end of their discussion, and Dick will leave, but he doesn’t. Dick hesitates, sticking his hands in his pockets, and avoids looking at Bruce when he eventually speaks. “I’ve been thinking of spending more time around here—the manor, Gotham… Maybe some weekends, whenever I can manage it.”

“You don’t have to, Dick. It’s not necessary.” Dick has his own life now. His own team. Responsibilities. Bruce can’t drag him away from that.

Dick sighs in exasperation. “I _want_  to, Bruce. I want to help.”

Bruce nods, after a moment. “Thank you,” he says stiffly. He’ll never understand how talking to Dick became so difficult, when once it was so easy. “I think that will be helpful. For Jason.”

 

* * *

 

Each night after Bruce gets home—or morning, depending on how late patrol goes—he pokes his head into Jason’s bedroom to check on him, and remind himself that Jason is really here, that this is real. 

Jason is always fast asleep. He spends most of his time sleeping. They think it’s a good sign, a sign of recovery. The brain needs sleep to heal itself. Sometimes peering inside from the doorway isn’t enough to reassure Bruce, and he ventures into the bedroom silently, stopping close enough to watch Jason’s chest rise and fall under the blankets as he breathes. Still alive.

Sometimes he’ll reach out to brush Jason’s hair aside gently, and hope for him to suddenly wake up as himself again. They could all pretend everything was just a bad dream.

Tonight, however, Jason’s bed is empty. He’s gone. Bruce bolts down the hallway to Alfred’s room, but he’s missing as well. 

He doesn’t have to search long, thankfully, before he finds both of them in the seldom trod corridor to the guest rooms. Jason is sitting sheltered in a little nook along the wall, wedged beside a small table with his arms wrapped around his knees, while Alfred kneels in front of him, coaxing him out.

“No need to worry, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, as Jason allows himself to be gently pulled to his feet. “The lad is fine. He wandered from his room and couldn’t find his way back, that is all.”

Bruce remembers that Jason used to get lost in the manor before, when he first moved in. Back then, he would yell “Marco” until Bruce found him, or yelled back. Alfred would scold them for shouting in the house, and they would smile at each other conspiratorially behind his back.

“Come along, Master Jason. Let’s get you back to bed,” Alfred tells the boy kindly. Then, to Bruce, his tone sharper with a hint of warning: “You’d best be getting to bed as well, Master Bruce.”

“Soon,” Bruce lies. “I have some work to do, first.”

Alfred frowns at him briefly, then turns away to shepherd Jason back to his bedroom. Normally Alfred would berate Bruce more. These days he has his hands full. 

Unsupervised, Bruce returns to the cave and his research. He works well into the morning, and only when the words start blurring on the screen does he stop to rest his eyes for a few minutes, then reinvigorates himself with a brisk workout and the coffee that Alfred left by his desk. Bruce boots up his computer again, alone and free of interruptions. A headache pounds at his temples but he does his best to ignore it. He still has plenty of work to do.

 

* * *

 

The hours and hours of research, the time spent scouring his databases for medical breakthroughs, new drugs and procedures and therapies, and trying to figure out how he can make them better, how he can synthesize them with his own technology and resources, or— or… 

All of it is taking a toll on the Mission. On Gotham.

Frequently, he’s told that he needs help. He can’t handle it all by himself; he needs a Robin. That’s what Tim keeps insisting. He visits often. He’s good with Jason.

Tim’s been making that argument for a while, long before he found Jason, ever since that day he showed up at the front door blurting out his knowledge of their secret identities. He’s even offered himself up for the position, if a bit rashly. 

Bruce still protests, but not as much as he should. It’s just too hard to keep arguing with Alfred and Dick and Tim, and even harder to argue when the boy puts on a Robin uniform one night and proves himself by saving Bruce’s life. So he trains Tim. He gets Dick to train Tim. He arranges for Tim to train with more teachers, and he tells himself that it will be different, this time. That he’ll be more careful.

(He tells himself that what he’s doing is unforgivable, putting another boy in the Robin uniform after what happened to Jason.)

Tim is smart, and dedicated, and capable, and it may be that he needs this as much as Dick did. As Jason did. As much as Bruce needed them.

Bruce resolves to try— to _try_  to treat this boy like a soldier, instead of a son.

 

* * *

 

Jason’s resurrection is proving to be quite complicated, legally. He was declared dead. There was a medical examiner’s report. There was a funeral. There’s still a grave.

At some point Bruce is going to have to explain to the world that his adopted son is no longer dead. He hasn’t come up with a good story yet. No matter what excuse he gives for Jason’s reappearance, he’s sure he’ll end up with press and police detectives and perhaps even some federal agents knocking on his door.

For the time being, he’s created a fake identity for Jason to book him appointments with the various doctors and therapists recommended by Leslie and Barbara. It’s frustrating that he can’t be the one to accompany Jason to these appointments, but they’ve all agreed it’s too dangerous, he’s too recognizable as as public figure. After countless appointments and no promising results, he’s been considering risking a disguise to be able to attend and interrogate the doctors, but Alfred scoffed at the idea, deeming it both unnecessary and ridiculous. Bruce hasn’t completely ruled it out.

Bruce checks the computer after tuning up the Batmobile. It’s only a bit after four o’clock, he notices, so he has plenty of time left to— He looks again and is surprised to see it’s Thursday. He’s losing track of days, he thought it was... He isn’t sure what day he thought it was. 

On Thursdays, Barbara helps Alfred by taking Jason to his appointments in the city. Afterwards she usually stays for tea at the manor. Bruce rushes upstairs, hoping he hasn’t missed her.

Fortunately, she is still sitting at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and a tray of Alfred’s baking. Alfred must have stepped out of the room to take care of Jason. Bruce realizes he must look like a wreck by the way Barbara stares at him with her eyebrows raised in shock. He should have at least changed his clothes.

“When was the last time you slept?” she demands. Bruce ignores the question and brushes off her concern. It doesn’t matter right now.

“Anything today?” he asks as he slides into the chair across from her and grabs a scone. He’s just remembered that he hasn’t eaten since after patrol last night, and the sight of food has made him suddenly famished. “What did the doctors say?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think Jason was in the mood for therapy today. He’s much happier now, though, since I stopped for milkshakes on the way here. Don’t tell Alfred,” she adds with a sly smile. Bruce merely stares at her expectantly. “His doctors are still confused by his condition,” she explains patiently. “They know something’s off—the brain trauma they’ve seen on the scans doesn’t seem to add up to the way he’s acting. And it’s not like I can tell them what actually happened.”

“I doubt it would help, even if they knew,” Bruce says flatly. “There’s no treatment for coming back from the dead.”

“Not yet, anyway,” she remarks, stirring sugar into her tea. “How is your research going?”

He grunts unhappily. “Have you looked at the alien technology schematics I sent you? And the clinical trial reports?”

“Yes. Both.”

“And?”

“And… I think they show promise in advancing our understanding of the human brain and how to treat it. But we’re talking _years_  from now—decades, even, for the alien tech, considering how small the size of that research field is.” Barbara sets down her teacup and laces her hands together on the table. She looks up at him, sad but determined. “Bruce, I really hate to say this, so I’m only going to say it this one time… I don’t think you’re going to find what you’re looking for.”

Bruce scowls. “You can’t—“

“I can’t know that for sure. You’re right. Maybe you’ll pull it off, in which case I’ll gladly eat my words and watch you two be Batman and Robin again. But I really don’t think there’s a magic spell or alien cure that will put everything back the way it was. You know nothing is ever that easy for us. And, in the meantime, Jason is right here. He’s not someone who could be Jason again, someday. He _is_  Jason.”

“I know that,” Bruce retorts.

“I don’t think you do. I think you’re still waiting for him to come back.”

His throat locks up, and he rubs at his forehead wearily so she can’t see his face. He’s too tired for this conversation. He doesn’t dare speak right now, unsure whether he’ll yell or cry if he opens his mouth. All he can do is close his eyes and breathe, trying to hold himself together.

He hears Barbara sigh sympathetically. “Listen, I have an idea—you take a break from your research this weekend. Send the files to me, I’ll look at them instead. In exchange, you have to promise you’ll spend that time with Jason. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Bruce manages to say, lowering his hands from his face.

“And get some sleep. Seriously.” She gives him a stern look that makes it clear she’ll be monitoring the activity of his computer system this weekend.

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

Time passes, and Jason doesn’t show any sign of getting better. Bruce’s research leads nowhere but dead ends. Sometimes Bruce can’t help but think that maybe this wasn’t a second chance after all. Perhaps it’s a punishment. Having Jason back in body but not in mind, and being unable to help him.

Another constant reminder of his failure, even more solid and impossible to ignore than the glass case down in the cave.

When Bruce does notice improvement, it’s sudden. They’re sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace and Bruce is reading aloud from a book he chose from the shelves in Jason’s bedroom. It’s one of the few activities Bruce can share with Jason now—he likes to think that Jason enjoys it. 

He picked Anne of Green Gables today, remembering how much Jason liked this book when he was younger. As he finishes reading the last line of a chapter, Jason reaches over and turns the page for him.

It is such a simple action, but it’s filled with so much promise that it takes Bruce’s breath away. He stares at Jason, stunned. Jason’s gaze is directed down at the book with a newfound focus, like he is actually seeing the words.

So far he has demonstrated only survival instincts, physical reactions to stimuli, but this is different. This is the proof Bruce has been waiting for. Jason is in there; he’s aware.

Later, Bruce will spend time considering the potential Jason has just shown, what it means for his recovery. He will makes notes and try to repeat the phenomenon. For now, he lowers his head into his hands and weeps.

 

* * *

 

Tim takes to the detective work a bit faster than the other boys did, as Bruce expected. He still has plenty to learn, however. 

Bruce struggles to find the time for training, but he makes sure that he does find it. This is important, as important as Bruce’s other priorities. These skills could save Tim’s life one day—yield crucial information, give him the upper hand, close cases faster. Bruce must ensure that Tim is prepared. Even more prepared than the ones before him.

They take a break from lab work with a tray of snacks and tea that Alfred brought down for them, Bruce reviewing the results of Tim’s fingerprint analysis and finding only a few faults. 

Something is bothering Tim—the food has gone untouched, though ordinarily he’s able to polish off most of the tray by himself. He leans on the table, chin in his hands, lost in thought. When Bruce asks him a question, he barely registers it, snapping out of his contemplation only at the end.

“What?” he blurts out, blinking in confusion. “Sorry, Bruce— What?”

“Tim, what’s the matter?”

“It’s… Jason. I don’t think he likes me anymore,” Tim admits glumly. “He used to, before. I know he did. But, that’s changed, ever since I started training to be Robin…”

Bruce is surprised to hear that. He certainly hasn’t noticed anything, and Jason has made it clear before when he dislikes someone; he can’t seem to stand Tommy lately, and behaves like a skittish cat during those check-ups, lashing out if the man so much as touches him. The only reason Bruce can think of is that Jason must associate Tommy with the pain of surgery.

“How do you know?” Bruce asks Tim. The boy shrugs.

“I can just feel it. He doesn’t want me around, he doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me.”

After that, Bruce watches carefully whenever the two boys are together. In the cave, at the dinner table, in the car as he drives Tim home after training and brings Jason along for the ride. As hard as he tries, he can’t see what Tim claims to be seeing.

 

* * *

 

The manor has housed more than its share of grieving boys.

Bruce was the first to shut himself in his bedroom and weep over the family he had lost. Years later, Dick did the same. And then there was Jason, who spent nights crying after finding out the truth of his father’s murder.

Bruce broke the news to Tim this morning. When they returned from the hospital, Tim headed straight for the spare room that has been serving as his bedroom—it was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but now, sadly, may be more permanent—and he has remained inside ever since. Bruce walked past the closed door a few times this afternoon. He considered knocking, perhaps opening it a crack to check on Tim, but he ultimately stopped and stepped away.

He offered what comfort he could at the hospital, and at first Tim flung himself into Bruce’s arms, but after a moment the boy flinched away from him and let go. As though he was afraid to be too close to Bruce, to be dragged further into the darkness that surrounds him.

Bruce understands completely. He knows perfectly well how much tragedy befalls those close to him. And so, he gives Tim the space he needs, for now.

Still, as Bruce makes his way to the study, he takes a detour to pass by Tim’s bedroom once more, just in case. This time, the door is partly open, and Bruce can hear Tim speaking to someone. He approaches silently and peers through the gap.

Tim is lying on the bed, curled up despondently on his side. Jason is there with him, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t look at Tim, but gazes at the wall in front of him without expression.

“I’m alone n-now, Jason,” Tim says, half-muffled by the pillow. His breath hitches around the words from suppressed sobs. “My mom is d-dead. And my dad… my dad might die, too. I don’t know.”

Jason continues looking forward, but his hand slides slowly over toward Tim’s. Tim grasps it tightly, like a lifeline, and buries his face in the pillow as the sobs overwhelm him again.

Jason tilts his head towards the door, but Bruce backs away and leaves before he can be seen.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing?”

Bruce’s stern voice makes both boys flinch instinctively and step away from each other on the training mats.

“Bruce.” Tim rubs at the back of his neck and winces either in guilt or pain—the hold Jason was restraining him with before Bruce intervened looked merciless. Tim glances from Bruce to Jason, but the silent boy offers no support, so he sighs and faces Bruce’s disapproval on his own. “I was… Jason was helping me train. He still knows how to fight.”

“This is too dangerous,” Bruce warns him. “Jason’s not in control of himself. He could think you’re an enemy. He could hurt you.”

“He won’t!” Tim insists. “He knows it’s just sparring.”

Bruce considers each of them. Tim looks up at him with that confidence he has when he knows for certain he’s right about something—and he _has_  been right about quite a lot, lately. Jason is still standing at the ready in a fighting stance, clenching and unclenching his fists as though restless.

Bruce steps backwards, off the training mats, and crosses his arms. “Show me.”

Jason doesn’t move until Tim does, easily sliding sideways to dodge the punch and retaliating with a swing of his own fist. Tim ducks into a crouch to avoid the strike and attempts to sweep Jason’s feet from under him, but Jason springs up, leaping over Tim and twisting in the air to land behind him.

He kicks Tim in the back, forcing him face-first into the mats, and holds him there with a knee planted between the other boy’s shoulder blades and his weight pressing down. 

Watching Jason fight, Bruce feels a glow of pride, the rekindling of some spark of light he thought was extinguished forever. Those are the moves Bruce taught him. The way he fights is as familiar to Bruce as his face, or his voice.

For a split second, Bruce forgets all the horrors of the past year, and expects Jason to smile over at him triumphantly and say something cheeky, like, “See, Bruce? This new kid’s got nothing on me!”

That doesn’t happen. He snaps himself out of his reverie. Tim is vulnerable, pinned to the ground. Bruce moves to pull Jason away from him. But there’s no need—Jason lessens the pressure on Tim’s back to let him roll free and get to his feet.

“See, Bruce?” says Tim, his face flushed and smiling. “He knows the difference.”

Bruce has to agree that Tim is right, once again. He sends Tim to hit the showers, leaving himself alone with Jason. Jason’s eyes are bright and alert in a way they haven’t been in a long time, and Bruce drinks in the sight.

He’s thought about this before. Attacking Jason. As bad as it sounds. He couldn’t _not_  consider it, after hearing the part of Tim’s story where Jason fought off three opponents. Some combination of survival instincts and muscle memory and the training Bruce hammered into him managed to shine through while the rest of Jason’s thinking and reasoning failed, and continue to fail. 

It’s possible that triggering that response might help Jason remember who he is, and what he can do, but Bruce couldn't go through with it… before. The facts are different now, Tim has proved it. Jason knows he isn’t in danger. He seems almost restless to fight.

Jason faces Bruce across the mats. Like he has so many times before. It could just be another afternoon training session between the two of them.

Bruce swings his fist at Jason hard, halting less than an inch from his face.

Jason doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.

Bruce grabs Jason roughly by the shirt collar like an enemy would, yanking sharply. Jason doesn’t try to stop him. He doesn’t— won’t fight back. Won’t fight Bruce.

Instead, a warm hand wraps around Bruce’s, still knotted in the fabric of Jason’s shirt. Bruce inhales a sharp, stuttering breath. 

“Jason?” 

There’s a crinkle between Jason’s eyebrows like the one he used to get when he was trying to figure out his math homework. His mouth opens slightly, then closes, emotions flickering weakly on his face. He’s fighting through that fog. Bruce can tell how much he’s trying, and he wants to say something to coax Jason further, but he’s already too late. 

Jason’s grip slackens. His hand drops to his side. And Bruce is left standing there, clutching Jason by the shirt. He lets go and straightens Jason’s collar apologetically.

“Jason,” he says again, pleadingly, but there’s no response. No reaction.

Bruce checks the camera feeds to make sure he didn’t imagine it, that it actually happened. He watches the footage over and over, obsessively, pausing and zooming on that expression on Jason’s face.

Tim trains with Jason often after that. Bruce watches them from across the cave as he works at the computers or on the vehicles, hiding his jealousy. Sparring with Jason after so long would be a joy. Whenever they happen to be alone in the cave, Bruce will try. He’ll fake a punch or grab Jason in an armlock, hoping for him to react, fight back, but he never does. As though he isn’t fooled by Bruce’s weak attempts to provoke him. As though he trusts that Bruce will never actually hurt him.

He’s right. But sometimes, in those long hours after patrol when Bruce sits at his computer in that quiet cave, at his most beaten-down and worn-thin, he’ll wonder what would happen if he didn’t pull his punches. Would Jason react then? What if he—

He always shuts down that train of thought before it gets too far, shaking his pounding head and rubbing at his dry, burning eyes and stumbling upstairs to bed. When he wakes, everything feels less dire, and he no longer thinks such things.

One particularly gruelling night, Bruce doesn’t make it upstairs, falling asleep in front of the computer instead. The dream he has is so vivid it feels like he’s awake. He leaves his chair and walks to the training mats, where Jason is waiting.

He stands across from Jason once again. Jason is strong and sure and not quite himself—he watches Bruce coldly, as though daring Bruce to hurt him, to cross a line.

And in the dream, Bruce does. Jason is on the floor of that warehouse, at his feet, and Bruce is holding the crowbar. He looks down at the blood-smeared metal in his hands, knowing that he might as well be the one to swing it. This is his fault either way. He set Jason on this path, the one that ends in front of a crowbar, in a bloody uniform, thousands of miles from home.

He raises his arm.

Bruce wakes up choking on the ground, having fallen from his chair. He lies there, pain shooting down his side as his chest heaves, then slowly eases himself to his feet. It’s been a while since he’s had a nightmare so disturbing. He thought he’d grown numb to them.

He doesn’t step onto those training mats with Jason again.

 

* * *

 

Bruce has missed hearing Jason’s laugh, but he never realized exactly how much until he hears it again.

He walks into the kitchen in a foul mood—that night he’d captured the Riddler, but not before he triggered a trap and got doused in sticky, stubbornly permanent neon paint. The counteracting chemical solution he has brewing in the cave will take a while yet before it’s ready. His suit took most of the damage, but…

Alfred stands at the stove cooking eggs for breakfast while Jason sits at the table and watches. The kitchen was always one of his favourite places in the house, and that hasn’t changed. He used to pester Alfred relentlessly (not that Alfred ever minded), hovering about and asking questions and taste-testing anything he could get his hands on. 

Nowadays it’s up to Alfred to fill the silence, so he tells Jason about his time as an actor, about recipes, and stories about Bruce as a child, all while Jason sits at the table and listens silently. 

Jason takes one look at Bruce’s face, everything below his nose dyed a bright green, and laughter slips past the boy’s lips.

It’s a shock, after so long. Bruce can only stare in disbelief, and then Jason makes the sound again and he knows he wasn’t mistaken. That’s a laugh. It’s short and hoarse, just a small noise, but it’s definitely a laugh.

Bruce is so stunned that he doesn’t notice Alfred, by the stove, drying his eyes with a dishtowel.

 

* * *

 

Jason is doing better. He has a routine now—he wakes up in the morning and gets dressed on his own. He goes to the kitchen when he’s hungry and to his bedroom when he’s tired, without getting lost like he used to. As a result, he’s becoming more difficult to keep tabs on, slipping away whenever a back is turned. Alfred sews tracking devices into his clothes, just in case.

He’s relearning how to do other tasks, too. On his own, erratically, and only partly aware, like a person sleepwalking.

He makes his way to the manor’s garage and finds a key fob, but instead of unlocking the car he accidentally presses the alarm button. The loud noise sends him into a panic and he shakes for half an hour after that. “Still, perhaps this is the better outcome,” Alfred tells Bruce as he pats Jason on the back comfortingly. “I shudder to think about him getting behind the wheel.”

Tim’s backpack goes missing from the kitchen, and they find it in Jason’s room. His homework binder and textbooks are arranged on the desk carefully, as though Jason mistook them for his own. There’s a small amount of indecipherable scribbling on one sheet of paper. Jason evidently gave up quickly—he’s napping in his bed when Bruce and Tim stumble onto the scene.

Bruce tries to be as encouraged as Alfred or Barbara or Tim when they talk about what new progress Jason has made each day, but something lonely and selfish inside of him hungers for more. Any moments of slight clarity are too rare and far between. Bruce catches glimpses of Jason shining through the fog and feels like he can breathe again, only for it to be snatched away. 

Bruce misses Jason. He misses talking to him, hearing his voice. He misses the way Jason’s eyes lit up, twinkling, as he made a smart-aleck quip at Bruce’s expense. 

It almost hurts more, now, that Jason walks about the manor on his own. It hurts to pass him in the hallway silently, unacknowledged. Jason is the one who died, but when his eyes slide past Bruce like he doesn’t exist, Bruce feels like the ghost here.

Bruce has slowed the pace of his frantic research, and ceased harassing the telepaths and magic users in the Justice League. He tells himself that he’s not giving up on Jason, he’s just… giving him time. Like everyone keeps saying. He is observing Jason’s condition to formulate his next steps.

The hard truth is that he’s done nothing but fail, and he’s running out of ideas. He hasn’t done anything to help Jason. Even harder to accept is the possibility that Jason doesn’t need his help at all, and never did. Jason brought himself back to life, survived on the streets on his own, and now his mind is slowly clawing its way free just like he clawed himself out of that grave.

One evening, Bruce emerges from the locker room, ready for another solo patrol, and sees Jason there, in the cave. Jason has relearned how to open the secret door in the grandfather clock, thanks to Tim—a development that Bruce can’t be entirely happy about, as it means Jason sometimes wanders downstairs unattended. It’s dangerous. Bruce reluctantly changed the code on the clock once already, but Jason seems to have learned the new one as well. At least the keys to the Batmobile are well hidden.

Jason is standing in front of the glass case that holds his uniform, staring at his reflection. As Bruce watches, he lifts his hand and presses it against the glass longingly.

“It’s not the same out there without you, Jay,” says Bruce, walking towards him. He tries to stifle that whisper of hope, the one that is always quick to say maybe _this_  is the big turning point, the breakthrough, but merely sets him up for disappointment over and over.

Jason turns his head and looks at Bruce, really _looks_  at him, as if for the first time. Bruce isn’t sure if Jason is becoming more expressive or if he’s just slowly getting better at reading him, but he can tell exactly what Jason is feeling, what he’s trying to say, and it stops him in his tracks.

The accusation in the boy’s narrowed eyes, the pain and anger, cuts Bruce to his core. 

Bruce opens his mouth to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but he fails to grasp the words in time and then Jason is lost to him again. That moment of clarity has ended, like a cloud passing over the sun. Jason’s eyes drift down, tired and unfocused. Bruce places a hand on his shoulder and guides him back upstairs.

 

* * *

 

“—and remember when you teamed up with the Titans to save my butt from Brother Blood?” Dick asks Jason during breakfast, as the younger boy concentrates on scooping jam to spread on his toast. “That was really great. I wish we did that more often. Not the part where I’m being mind-controlled and you guys have to rescue me, but the rest. Oops, here, let me get you another napkin to clean that up.”

True to his word, Dick has been doing his best to visit Gotham whenever he can spare a day or two. Being as busy as he is, that spare time doesn’t come up often, but he is trying, which is already more than Bruce can ask for.

It feels right to have him back at the manor, sitting across from him at the breakfast table, hearing his voice in the other room, even just walking down the hallway at night and seeing the light shining from under his bedroom door. It’s even better to patrol at his side again, like something missing has been slotted back into place.

“The whole team was really happy to hear that you’re back,” Dick tells Jason, wiping the spilled jam off the table. “You’ll have to come visit us at the tower, eventually.”

Dick has always been good at filling silences. Lately he is more determined about it, in the hope that retelling familiar events might help jog Jason’s memory. The two of them never spent much time together, so he tends to repeat himself. Jason does seem to listen, usually. But today he just frowns in annoyance as he chews on his toast.

Bruce smiles behind his newspaper. The stories are familiar to him, as well. He used to hear them just as repetitively from Jason. Jason always tried to hide how much he looked up to Dick, but after those rare occasions they saw each other, he would talk about nothing else for days.

“And that time we went on that ski trip? Remember? It was the first time you’d been skiing, and—”

Jason gently slaps his hand over Dick’s mouth to get him to stop talking.

 

* * *

 

Some nights Jason wakes up screaming. And he keeps screaming, keeps crying, even after the nightmare is over because he has trouble telling the difference between dreams and reality. There are never any words—Jason’s condition has been improving steadily, but he hasn't reached words yet—just raw fear and anguish. Pain so sharp and keening that something catches in Bruce's throat just from hearing it.

It can take Bruce and Alfred hours to calm him down after those night terrors, and the dreams haunt Jason afterwards. He retreats back into himself for the rest of the day. He slips back into his shell, his recovery halting. Taking a step backwards.

 

* * *

 

Tim is leaving for Paris tomorrow, for the next stage of his training. When he returns, he’ll be ready to put on his new uniform and finally join Batman in Gotham.

By then, maybe Bruce will be ready, too. He can’t deny that he needs the help, not with all the close calls on patrol lately, but the thought of being responsible for a partner again makes his hands shake like they did when he dug desperately though the smouldering rubble of that warehouse.

“I can’t wait to see how Jason is when I get back,” Tim says cheerfully as he packs his utility belt under Bruce’s supervision. Just that afternoon, Jason picked up a book on his own and read from it for a while, before he seemed to forget what he was doing and put it back down. “At this rate, he could be talking again the next time I see him. Almost back to his old self.”

Bruce grunts in half-hearted agreement, and goes to grab stun pellets from the supply cabinet. The belt compartment can fit a few more, and he doesn’t want Tim to run out if he finds himself in trouble during his trip. When he turns back to the worktable, Tim is gazing at the glass case that holds Jason’s costume and chewing his lip in a troubled way.

“Bruce… Do you think he’ll ever be Robin, again?”

“Tim—“

“I’d just like to have an idea if my time in this job is temporary or not,” Tim continues in a rush. “I thought it was, and I was okay with that. I’m happy to help out. But now, you’re sending me on this big trip, even though he’s getting better.”

Bruce places a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t know if Jason will ever be able to be Robin again.” Or if he’ll even want to be, after what he went through. Admitting even that much is difficult. Bruce still clings to hope that one day Jason will wear those colours and fight at his side again. “I only know that it won’t be happening soon. Until then, I’m committed to having you as my partner. As long as you are.”

“Of course,” Tim says, looking up at Bruce intently, his voice calm and sure. “I’m all in.”

But when he goes back to working on his utility belt, he’s biting his lip again.

“Master Timothy, your laundry is done and ready to be packed,” Alfred announces as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “I found exactly three socks free of holes. If you’d only told me sooner, I could have bought you new ones before you left.”

Tim laughs. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Thanks, though.” He moves aside to let Bruce check the battery of the belt’s tasing function again. “Alfred, I was just telling Bruce, with the rate Jason is recovering, he’ll be completely different by the time I get back. I bet he’ll be able to talk by then, don’t you?”

“It would hardly be appropriate to make bets on such a thing, but, yes, I do believe that is very possible,” Alfred agrees, smiling. 

Tim turns to Bruce. “You know, it’s funny… Back when I found Jason, I thought you’d just get someone like Martian Manhunter to go into his brain and fix him up, and then he’d be back as Robin again in no time.” He gives a small, self-depreciating smile. “I guess that was kind of naive, huh?”

“I tried that,” Bruce admits quietly. “Nothing I did worked. He’s improved all on his own.”

Tim exchanges a concerned look with Alfred. “No, not on his own,” he says, hesitantly at first. “A lot of it is because of you. I mean, he _looks_  at you. Whenever you’re in the room, he notices. He learned how to open the clock so he could look for you in the cave. The only reason he even followed me out of the alley that night is because I said your name.”

Bruce shakes his head, unable to accept it. No. That’s not true. Tim is wrong this time.

Alfred sighs. “I can’t say I’m surprised. For such a brilliant detective, how often you’re oblivious to what’s right in front of you,” he remarks dryly. “I’m certain Master Jason wouldn’t be recovering half as much if he wasn’t here at home, safe with his family—especially you, Master Bruce. He loves you.”

“He won’t,” says Bruce. “Not when he remembers what happened.” 

He turns and walks away, leaving them stunned and confused behind him. They can’t understand, they didn’t see that expression on Jason’s face. There’s an anger waiting there. One that Bruce will have to answer to, someday.

 

* * *

 

Jason’s been struggling with sounds for weeks, trying to string them together into words. It frustrates him that he can’t. He’s grown angry and tired with his own limitations, and lately he’s hardly ever seen without a faint scowl on his face.

“Bruce,” he manages one evening, after hours of trying. It’s slow and stilted. It’s his first full word.

Bruce’s heart fills with pride and undeserved happiness. “I’m here, Jason,” he says, hugging Jason so the boy can't see the pained, broken expression on his face. “I’m sorry.”

He’s wanted to apologize to Jason, many times, but hasn’t been able to get the words out—too frozen with regret, too aware that he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven. But he thinks it’s time to start.

**Author's Note:**

> been ruminating on a pt 3, hopefully it won't take 5 years again


End file.
